"Fool," says the young woman, coming still closer, "though I am wedded to Jesus Christ, yet I love thee the same as before."

Then Ricardo began to sigh and groan.

"No, Maria, you do not love me; you love Manolito Lopez."

"Come, Ricardo mio, don't talk nonsense. How could I love this urchin?"

"Have you not just married him?"

"You must be dreaming; don't say any more absurd things.... Wake up, man--wake up ... or wait a little, I am going to wake you. But see in what a sweet way!"

And in fact, the beautiful nun came even closer still, and took his face between her dainty hands with an affectionate gesture. Then she brought her own close to his slowly, and gave him a warm and prolonged kiss on the brow.

Oh! wonderful chance! Ricardo noticed with amazement, that just as she gave him the caress, Maria's face had suddenly changed into Marta's.

Yes; it was her bright black eyes; her fresh rosy cheeks; her dark hair falling in ringlets around her brow. But her face seemed so sad and mournful that he could not do less than cry,--

"Marta, Marta! what ails thee?"

And the very cry that he made awoke him.

Marta still sat in the low chair beside the window, apparently absorbed in her work. And nevertheless, the young man, though awake, was sure that he had cried out. All that had pa.s.sed was a dream; but neither the cry nor the warm, moist lips which he felt imprinted on his brow were imaginary; though he were killed, he could not be convinced of it.

What was it? What had pa.s.sed?

He remained some instants looking at Mart.i.ta, while he slowly collected his ideas. At last he decided to speak to her. The girl lifted her face which was flushed and disturbed.

"Did I not just cry out?"

Mart.i.ta grew still more flushed and disturbed, and scarcely could she answer in trembling voice,--

"No.... I heard nothing."

Ricardo looked at her steadily and with surprise: "Why was that girl blushing so?"

"I was asleep, but I would take my oath that I cried out ... and I would also take my oath--such a strange thing!--that you gave me a kiss."

Marta's color, when she heard these words, suddenly changed from rosy to pale, betraying a profound consternation. Her tremulous hands could not hold her crochet work, and dropped it in her lap. At the same time her eyes rested on Ricardo with such an expression of fear, of tenderness, of supplication, of dismay, that he felt a strong shock, like that caused by an electric discharge.

It was the same look--the same that he had just seen in his dream.

He felt himself inundated by a great light, a divine light. At that supreme moment he saw everything, he comprehended all. The mist that blinded his eyes faded away, and he saw himself face to face with the scene in the garden, when Marta seemed so offended because he kissed her hands ... and he saw and comprehended. The strange dismay following that scene he likewise saw and comprehended. Then he went back in imagination to the beach on the island. The sun pouring floods of light over the sand; the blue and white waves girdling a peninsula where two young people had been long sitting; the sob which broke the silence of the tunnel; then a girl falling into the water, and a young man plunging in after her and saving her. "Thanks, Senor Marques, it is not so bad down below there." This also he saw, he comprehended. Then a sudden and extraordinary estrangement: a pair of eyes that did not look at him, two lips that did not speak to him, a pair of hands that did not touch him.

Ah, yes; he saw all; he understood all.

He sprang up hastily from the sofa, and bringing his face close to Marta's, said to her in sweet, affectionate tones, but with innocent petulance,--

"Don't deny it, Mart.i.ta; you just gave me a kiss!"

The girl raised her hands to her face, and broke into a pa.s.sion of tears. A thousand emotions of fear, of penitence, of affection, of doubt, of joy, of anxiety, instantly crossed the heart of the young marquis who bent his knee before her, exclaiming in accents of emotion,--

"Marta, for G.o.d's sake, forgive my stupidity.... I am a fool!... I just dreamed such sad things, and they suddenly all ended so well!... I could not resign myself to let happiness escape so ... an absurd idea came into my head, inspired by the very idea of seeing it realized.... But no ... no! I cannot be happy on earth.... I was born to be unfortunate....

Luckily I shall die early, like my father ... and like my mother....

Forgive me that momentary folly, and don't weep.... Do you want to know what I was dreaming?... I am going to tell you, because perhaps it will be the last time that you will see me.... I dreamed ... I dreamed, Marta, that you loved me."

The girl opened her hands a little, and e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed with a certain wrathful, but adorable intonation these words, which were immediately cut short by sobs,--

"You dreamed the truth, ingrato!"

The Marques de Penalta, beside himself, entirely carried away by his emotions, his heart ready to burst, pressed her in his arms without being able to speak a word. At last, very softly, very softly, with the sublime incoherence of the heart, like a murmur of celestial harmony, he whispered into the ears of his friend the hymn of love. Dios mio! how sweet sounded that hymn in Marta's ears! I do not intend to repeat it: no; the pen cannot reproduce that mysterious language which comes directly from the heart, scarcely touching the lips,--accents escaping from heaven and hastening to take refuge in the breast of virgins,--for the earth does not understand them, notes perhaps lost from the song with which the angels celebrate their immortal bliss.

Marta listened. Tremulous, confused, she hid her head in her lover's breast, shedding a flood of tears. Ricardo pressed her closer and closer to his heart without wearying of repeating the same phrase,--the most beautiful phrase that G.o.d ever suggested to man. Once the girl raised her head to ask in low and tremulous voice,--

"You will not go now, will you?"

Little desire had Ricardo at that moment to go away! Not for all that was precious in earth and in heaven would he go away. His spirit did not dare to pa.s.s by even the window-panes, fearful lest it should lose the bliss in which it was bathed. Nevertheless, he had sufficient self-control to tear himself away a moment and rush to the door, crying,--

"Don Mariano! Don Mariano!"

The Senor de Elorza, alarmed, nervous as he had been for some time, came in haste, fearing some new misfortune. Ricardo's face, wherein shone the deep emotion which overmastered him, was not calculated to calm any one.

What was the matter? Why did they call him?

"Don Mariano," said the young man, and his voice stuck in his throat....

"I have the honor of asking the hand of your daughter Marta."

That was a thunder-stroke; but what the devil! Had he gone crazy?...

What did it mean, sir? We shall see, we shall see! Nothing; Don Mariano could say nothing, could do nothing, could think of nothing, for before he could say, do, or think of anything, his daughter's arms were around his neck, and she was weeping as though her heart would break.... What was left for the n.o.ble caballero? To weep likewise. Why, this was exactly what he did, pressing his beloved child with one arm, and squeezing with his other hand the Marques of Penalta's.

"You will not abandon me, will you, my children?" entreated the venerable man, lifting his n.o.ble, manly face bathed in tears.

Ricardo pressed his hand more warmly. Marta clung to his neck more fondly.

There were a few moments of silence, during which all the angels of heaven swept through the room, which was bathed in the morning sun, and gazed with radiant eyes of joy upon that interesting group. But now Mart.i.ta lifts her face a little from her father's breast, and, smiling through her tears, asks her lover coyly: "Will you dine with us to-day, Ricardo?"

"Yes, preciosa mia," replied the young marquis, falling on his knees, and kissing the girl's hands again and again; "I will to-day, and to-morrow, and every day forever!"

Marta hid her face again on the paternal breast! Her heart was so full of joy! The three shed tears in silence; but what sweet tears!

O eternal G.o.d, who dwellest in the hearts of the good! are they perhaps less pleasing to Thee than the mystic colloquies of the Convent of San Bernardo?

THE END.

_"The demand for these Russian stories has but just fairly begun; but it is a literary movement more widespread, more intense, than anything this country has probably seen within the past quarter of a century."_--BOSTON TRAVELLER.

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